Lethe

He thought he saw her in the orchid house
and all the flowers seemed to disappear,
but someone with a younger, sharper face
and eyes less bright than hers, less cold and clear,
had stolen how she used to stand, and spilled
her hair across new shoulders. He felt the force
of those primordial sorrows he’d tried to kill.
Forget her running hair, her hungry voice,
forget the way her phantom saturates 
this stranger’s body brushing past a bloom;
forget how orchids mock the smell of mates
and lure the bee into a sterile room;
forget his servile grimace at her talk,
forget the orchid nodding on its stalk. 

First Place — 2026 First Things Poetry Prize